


One of Those World-Saving Things

by EntreNous



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Angst, M/M, Post-Chosen, Post: s05e22 Not Fade Away
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-09-18
Updated: 2004-09-18
Packaged: 2017-11-26 16:48:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/652367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EntreNous/pseuds/EntreNous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Do you ever feel like you get ready for it too many times?” Xander asks, and Spike doesn’t need him to clarify. It’s the end that he’s talking about. Not just no-more-of-you-or-me, but of everyone, everything. The end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One of Those World-Saving Things

There’s a moment when a hand reaches down to help him up, and Spike stops, because he knows that hand. Hard spots, scars, strong fingers reaching --

“Come on,” a voice says urgently, and his hesitation diffuses at the familiar sound.

Hands clasp, he’s pulled to his feet, and then they’re running, running.

“You made it,” Xander says to him when they reach a warehouse with a door that can shut and lock behind them. 

“Yeah,” Spike says with a nod, head-bobbing because he isn’t sure if Xander means he made it back from the dead, or if he made it out of the alley after the annihilation of the Black Thorns unleashed hell on them, or if he made it away from the monster back in the abandoned shipyard that was rallying for round number three.

“Thought you lot weren’t having anything more to do with me,” Spike says clearly, and Xander’s brow furrows.

“Why?” Spike looks skeptically at him, and Xander shrugs. “I think I qualify for the out-of-the-loop status. Are we on opposite sides again? Was there a happiness clause in your soul contract after all?”

“You didn’t hear,” Spike says, a statement rather than a question.

“Probably,” Xander agrees. Then he sighs. “Give me a break. I was in Africa.”

“It’s not like they don’t have telephones and internet on the Dark Continent,” Spike says sarcastically. “I was in Africa as well, I’ll have you recall.”

“Yeah, but you were going crazy,” Xander says absently as he peers through the small window in the door. “Somehow what with the hallucinations and the rush of guilt I don’t think you were strolling around metropolitan areas, stopping in at cafes asking about WiFi.” Suddenly there’s a rattle and bang, and Xander jumps a little and grins when the door holds. “You think there’s a back way out of this place?”

Spike cocks his head to the side, casing the stretch of floor in front of them through the darkness, finally spotting a fire door in the corner. He grabs Xander’s arm and pulls hard. “C’mon.”

They’re out on a main street, with people milling around them as though there’s nothing wicked in the night. 

“What next?” Xander asks, and for a moment Spike just blinks at him. 

“Vanquish the demon, I suppose.”

Xander’s hand rubs at the back of his neck. “Um. ‘Kay. Any ideas how to take this one down? Because from where I was standing, the brute force of one vampire didn’t seem to be doing it.”

“Not a one,” Spike says, and they half-smile at each other. “Know a bit about it, and the name -- that’ll start us off. It’s a--”

“Don’t bother telling me the species; I’ll only mispronounce it . . . and probably summon something annoying,” Xander says. 

Spike doesn’t bother responding, just taps out a cigarette and lights it with shaking hands.

“It’s a bad one though?” Xander asks.

“Could be very bad,” Spike says in a low voice. “Depends on how many of his friends he has with him.”

“Where’s Giles when you need him?” Xander asks rhetorically, and then “hmmmm”s, like he’s filling the empty conversational space.

“Got connections ‘round here; should have info. They’ll know if this is . . . something big,” Spike says, and Xander just nods. 

“How long will that take?”

“Have to make a few calls, send a few messages,” Spike offers. “Tomorrow night, probably, is the soonest we’ll have something.”

Xander shrugs his jacket closer to him. “Guess it’s back to your place then.”

“Why am I guessing you don’t _have_ a place?” Spike asks, and Xander’s eyebrows rise as though the answer to that is ridiculously obvious. 

* * *

Xander gapes at the sight of Spike tappity-tapping away at his computer keyboard, sending emails and instant messages, until Spike rolls his eyes without turning his head.

“Everyone’s connected now,” he says.

“Even demons and bad guys?” Xander asks.

“Especially demons. And they’re not all bad guys.”

“I know that,” Xander says defensively.

When Spike hits the return key the last time he lets out a short bark of laughter. “Came back a changed man, did you?” he asks ironically.

“Went there a changed man,” Xander says in a quiet voice, and Spike stiffens, and then shuts the computer down.

“What are you doing here, Xander?” Spike asks, pushing back the chair to face him.

“Same thing as you,” Xander responds, eyes wide.

* * *

An hour later, and they’re collapsed onto Spike’s couch. “Angel still alive?” Xander asks quietly.

Spike rubs at his eyes then drops his hands to his lap. “Yeah, should be. Was the last time I saw him.” He looks at Xander out of the corner of his eye, and asks in a casual tone, “Buffy okay?”

“Far as I know,” Xander says. His voice is calm, not defensive as it might have once been. 

They’re neither of them in the thick of things, it would seem.

Then Spike realizes there’s something missing, and he’s half asleep, head tilted back on the cushions, before he realizes what. They’re waiting for word from his contact; can’t do much of anything until they have a lead. And nothing from Xander, no cracking of jokes, no drumming of fingers against available surfaces, no back-and-forth bouncing step, no curious exploration and accidental breaking of objects and knickknacks.

Quiet. 

When Spike looks, Xander’s chin has drooped down towards his chest, and he wavers as though he could fall in one direction or the other. And when Xander finally sways towards him, more asleep than awake, and rests his head on Spike’s thigh, Spike lets a hand hover before touching lightly against that tumble of hair. Xander doesn’t move away, and that’s enough to start Spike threading his fingers through the dark locks, massaging lightly at his scalp.

* * *

Another hour passes, and Xander’s awake, still lying on Spike’s thigh.

“Do you ever feel like you get ready for it too many times?” Xander asks, and Spike doesn’t need him to clarify. It’s the end that he’s talking about. Not just no-more-of-you-or-me, but of everyone, everything. The end.

“Still a bit of a new thing for me,” Spike says. His fingers curl and uncurl in Xander’s hair.

“What, you’ve been alive for over a hundred years,” Xander says. He swallows a yawn, and rests a hand next to his cheek on Spike’s leg. 

“Only in the business of world-saving for the last few, though. But this may not even--”

The phone rings on the lowest tone, but it still makes Spike wince. He’s careful, though, shifting away from Xander gently before he stands to catch the call.

Xander sits up and stretches while Spike listens to the excitable voice on the other line. “This one of those world-saving things?” he asks as soon as Spike’s returned the receiver to its cradle, and though his voice is weary he sounds so young to Spike’s ears. Not that Spike particularly cared before about how young any of them were, but now . . .

“Looks like,” Spike says. “There’s a ceremony tomorrow night. . . I’ll try to stop it. . . But you don’t have to, I mean . . .” He sighs, and tries again, “Listen, Xander . . .”

“I feel like I get ready for it too many times, Xander says, answering his own question of a moment ago. He stands, moving closer to Spike. His face is earnest and his eyes dark as he reaches for Spike’s belt. 

When he drops to his knees the move is graceless, but Spike isn’t about to complain, because Xander Harris on his knees in front of him, head dropped forward and wavy hair spilling into his downcast eyes, matches up nicely to some tantilizing little movie reels he’s had playing in his head for years. 

“You don’t have to . . .” Spike says again, now not meaning it half as much. He lets out a soft whine when Xander’s hands undo him piece by piece. 

“Want to,” Xander whispers, and slides his lips tight along Spike’s erection.

It’s been a while, maybe for both of them, and Spike’s been on his own in more ways than this lately. Even with twinges of conscience and prodding of guilt, there’s very little that he can muster to refuse warmth and closeness offered so intently. So he takes a half-step back, and watches Xander follow in a slide and shuffle, until he has his shoulders to the wall, his mouth open to match Xander’s on him, hands gripping Xander’s skull as he tries not to thrust too hard.

They don’t speak, but the murmurs and sounds fill the small space, and Spike would make more than a token protest about the unbalanced situation were it not for the sharp jerk of Xander’s elbow, the tell-tale sign of his hand on himself as he licks and pants and sucks. Nothing Spike hasn’t seen before, but the need, Xander’s need to do this to him, stuns him into shoving harder into that pretty wet mouth. When his balls tighten and draw closer, Xander’s hand is on them, caressing, and Spike’s cries are a throaty and harsh counterpoint to the small moans coming from Xander’s lips. 

He stumbles a little when he slides to the floor, jeans still around his ankles, but he gets Xander in his arms soon enough, pulls him almost but not quite into his lap. Both of them ignore the muffled weeping.

* * *

They go to sleep without any weighty discussion, and Spike lets himself pretend for a moment that this, Xander Harris in his bed, is something they both set out to attain rather than something that happened.

“So tomorrow,” Xander says, and then stops.

“Tomorrow we save the day,” Spike finishes.

“Okay,” Xander says, and when Spike’s curled behind him, stroking his chest and belly, he sighs. “Okay.”


End file.
